“We are not people who touch each other carelessly; every point of contact between us feels important, a rush of energy and relief.”
―Veronica Roth, Allegiant

There are so many symptoms of Lyme, and really, that's a post unto itself (and one I plan to make).

But one of the hardest to deal with is the skin pain.

All the time, my skin feels--wrong. Too tight, slightly burning, too hot--it hurts, but it doesn't just hurt. Or rather, it doesn't hurt in just one way. It hurts in various ways, and it's also uncomfortable in various ways, and tuning it out took a great deal of practice.

It also means that I am, for the vast majority of the time, denied one of the simplest (and far too frequently over-looked) pleasures of daily life: touch.

Not just touch of another human being, but touch in general. I turn on the shower, step under the water, and I try so hard to enjoy the feeling of the heat, the light pressure of tiny droplets washing over me--but instead I think of grains of rice pelting me.

Imagine that, and think of a shower of it, at a constant pressure.

Do you see why I almost always take very quick showers?

Buying clothing is a miserable experience, more often than not. An article of clothing may fit perfectly, flatter me, and be something I really do want--but if it rubs the wrong way (and most of the time I won't know until I try a piece of clothing on if it will or won't do so) then it's back onto the rack for that particular item. It can take hours.

I almost never wear jeans any more. Or trousers at all, really. Not because I don't like them, but because the way they rub my legs when I walk is a constant distraction that has me gritting my teeth.

And yes, there is human touch. My father patting my back as I go to bed for the night, like he has since I was an infant, and kissing my forehead. My mother holding me close, having washed her hands and face, changed her shirt, and brushed her teeth just for me, so I don't have an allergic reaction to the tobacco from the cigarette she'd just finished smoking. Hugging my dear friend tightly without thought--or my friend doing the same, not hesitating and asking if it's okay--when I see him or her, or when one of us is upset.

All of those things--and I don't mean just human touch, but I mean that the most--are no longer just a part of my life. And now that they are not, I realize--especially with human touch--how much all of it mattered.

My friends care. Many know how I am, in this area, and they ask if it's okay to hug me before doing so. (My heart breaks that they have to do so, but I am grateful that they remember to do so. It is different than them deciding for me that they will not hug me to ensure I have no pain--but that's also another post to come.) I treasure each gentle touch and wish, on one level, that the person hugging me treasured it as much as I do.

I know it's unlikely that he or she does--you don't know what you have until it's gone, and all, and I don't want any of my friends to experience losing this grace, this gift. The feeling of hot water pouring over your body, trickling down your curves and angles and soothing away the stress of the day, the simple fun of updating your wardrobe...

Not even thinking about sticking out your hand to shake someone else's, or to wrap your arm around their body. Not having to think about them doing so in return.

I've lost a lot, and I mourn all of it. And I don't know that this is what I have the hardest time with.

But it's in the top ten, yes.

[Words: 674]
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